But He Talks Like a Gentleman
by Besosybrazos
Summary: Written for the BTR kinkmeme over on lj. Kendall rapes Carlos before a concert, Carlos goes out afterward and sings like he means it. Noncon, one sided Kendall/Carlos, maybe a hint of James/Carlos.
1. Part 1

**Soooo. Yeah. I don't quite have an explanation for this fic. It was something I wanted to try, because the prompt was really fantastic, and I thought that I could try it. It's not your typical noncon scenario, which I think makes it kind of creepier. It's _nice_, Kendall is _nice_ about it and that's not something that shows up in fic too much. It's more your standard victim is raped, rapist is a scary asshole, end of story. This is a little different, _a lot_ different, and bear with me people, I just wanted to give it a shot. I don't in any way think this is in character. Kendall isn't a rapist so I'm not going to pretend this is something that could ever happen on the show. This was just a writing exercise.**

**Warnings for semi-graphic noncon, disturbing themes, general creepiness. Kendall's character is a little off, as I mentioned, simply because he's raping someone, which never, never, would ever happen. 'Nuff said about that.**

**I know this fic is going to seem strange to some of you, and that's okay. I'd appreciate some feedback, because I kind of have an idea of where I'd like to continue this, but I want to know if you guys would be interested in something like that. It's cool if you aren't, I'll probably just stick to posting on my livejournal, which is what I mostly do anyways. Oh and if anyone wants I have some James/Carlos porn that I posted over there the other day, just PM me or leave a comment asking for it and I'll give you the link.**

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But He Talks Like a Gentleman  
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Carlos' hands are shaking a little and his legs don't feel like they work quite right. He's twitchy inside, nervous and fluttery, butterflies and bubbles in his bones and blood. His mouth is sour like he's nauseous, like he's going to puke any second, but there's excitement in him too, deep down in his core, excitement that bursts forth from his chest, warms the rest of him. He can't believe he's here, even though he's done this all before. This isn't his first concert and he's as nervous as he was for their first. The jitters fade away the second the spotlight hits him, though, and he comes alive there, fills out and becomes someone brave and confident and new, a special, secret Carlos. He's the best he can be when he's out on stage, he's what everyone expects him to be, perfect and energetic and smiling, a great dancer, someone with bright eyes and a cheerful voice.

"Are you ready for this?" Kendall never gets nervous, not visibly. Kendall is smooth and aloof and _cool_, made for this in all the ways Carlos isn't. There are times, even now, when he's not quite sure if this is what he is meant to do. He's just a goofy guy from Minnesota who wears a helmet when he shouldn't and loves to dance and hang around with his best friends.

"Yeah." He is; the butterflies in him are slowly dying, crumbling at the wings, turning to nothing more than happiness that collects in the back of his skull and buzzes, makes him vibrate alive with ecstasy. He wants to go out, dance and sing, strut his stuff, watch thousands of girls he's never seen and will never know smile and scream and giggle, swoon on the spot. Out on the stage he's more than himself, he's Super Carlos, his favorite version of himself. "I love concerts."

"They're pretty awesome." Kendall nods, stretching liquid and languid like a cat, scratching absently at his belly, the sliver of skin exposed when his shirt rides up. "You look good, by the way. The wardrobe people picked well." He hates the tightness of the denim in his jeans, the uncomfortable way it clings to him, but Kendall likes it, so he likes it a little more now too.

"Thanks. I like your shirt."

Kendall laughs softly, a low rumble in his throat, and Carlos doesn't get why he's laughing at something that isn't a joke and isn't intended to be funny. "What?" He asks, wondering how what he said could be funny, only most of the question dies in his throat, cut off and turned into a very surprised, undignified squeak. His face burns and his mouth is ten degrees too warm because Kendall is kissing him, one of his best friends, one of his _buds_ is kissing him. Carlos has never kissed anyone before, let alone another guy, and the heat that blooms in his belly is from something other than arousal, heavy like dread and confusion intertwined, tumbling together inside him. "Huh." He breathes, gulping room temperature, stale air as Kendall pulls away.

Kendall leans in to kiss him again, curls a hand around his cheek, finger stroking gentle and reverent, like Carlos is something he's always wanted to touch. "Please don't kiss me again, we're just friends." Kendall knows that, he has to, but they're both too close and the room is too warm and this could just be Kendall's way of relaxing, blowing off his excess steam.

"We both know this is going to happen anyways." Kendall tells him, somber and serious, his voice light and stern, the tone someone uses when they're talking to a child, explaining how the world does and doesn't work and how it will always be. "Don't fight it." Kendall tries to kiss him and he turns his face away so all that Kendall's mouth comes into contact with is the side of his cheek. He mouths the skin there, wet and playful, flicks out his tongue.

"Seriously, get off me."

Kendall doesn't get off him; Kendall doesn't do a damn thing.

"Don't be like that, man." Kendall cups his face, moves it how he wants it, forces Carlos to turn his neck, to meet his eyes. There is nothing recognizably Kendall in his face and yet he's completely and utterly Kendall, the same as he's always been, smiling a tiny, disappointed grin. "You know you want it. You're always hugging me, clinging to me, jumping into my arms. I know you want it." He doesn't want it, whatever it is, though, he's almost positive he knows exactly what _it_ is and is has his stomach doing a slow, uncomfortable roll, too hot and liquid, burning him alive with fear and dread.

"Kendall, come on, this isn't funny." His chest is starting to feel too tight and this is the worst joke anyone has ever played on him. He's secretly hoping for James and Logan to pop out of the corner, a video camera in their hands, laughing and high fiving Kendall while they record his expression. This isn't a joke, there's no one in the room but himself and Kendall, the world too quiet and too empty and too small for him to ever be safe.

"You can't tease a guy forever Carlos, it's just not cool." Kendall kisses him, lips firm and demanding against his. Kendall wrecks his mouth until it's slippery and shiny, swollen and damp with a mixture of their spit. He wants to shout for help but part of him can't believe it, because this is Kendall, his best friend, his _best_ friend.

"Kendall, you're scaring me."

"Don't be afraid, I love you Carlos, we're best friends." Kendall says the words like they're part of a beloved promise. "I love you way more than James or Logan; they're not good enough friends to give you what you've always been asking for."

Kendall pushes him back against the makeup counter, lifts him onto it, pawing and kissing him everywhere his mouth and hands can reach. Carlos is motionless and dazed for most of it, watching the florescent lights flicker on the ceiling, counting every crack in the plaster above his head. Kendall slips his pants down past his knees and this is really happening, isn't a crazy, warped dream, so he starts to struggle, desperate and panicked, only for Kendall to slam him back so hard his head cracks against the mirror. There is a loud thud, a smack, not rough enough to do any lasting damage, but there's pain and his vision goes white for a second, long enough for Kendall to unzip his pants, spit loud and obscene onto his palm. "Don't be like that." Kendall whispers, sounding strangely sad and brutally honest. "I don't want to have to get rough with you. I don't think you'll like that."

He doesn't like any of it, not a single bit. Kendall slimes his hand up with spit and presses fingers inside him, to loosen him up, work out his tension, and it's horrible and intrusive, a violation of his personal space. He thinks he's going to cry then, his thighs held apart by Kendall's waist in-between them, Kendall's fingers twisting where they don't have permission to be. He swallows hard, counting cracks in the ceiling again, letting his eyes fall shut as Kendall pushes _in_. It feels like he's being torn in two but he knows he isn't, Kendall's too gentle, too sweet, kisses a necklace of kisses across his throat, each more loving than the last. "That good?" He asks, moving, thrusting in a steady rhythm, a glide and slide of his hips. "You like that?" Kendall touches his cock and he wishes he was being split in two, torn apart at the seams, shredded awful and messy, then this would seem worse than it is, it'd feel physically as bad as it feels inside. His wounds are on the inside, in the frayed, shattered ruins of his heart. Kendall gives up touching him when it becomes apparent that Carlos isn't going to get hard, not for Kendall, not during this.

Kendall takes what seem like hours to finish. Sweat collects messy and sticky at Carlos' temples, on his thighs, everywhere Kendall touches him, his body flushed with too much heat. Kendall comes silently, the falter in his rhythm giving him away; as does the lazy, hot trickle of come dribbling down Carlos' thighs, out from inside him. He could scream, bite through his tongue, fill his mouth with the bitterness of his own blood and hurt like he wants to, like he needs to. He wants to hurt in a way that everyone can see. No one is going to look at him, see the pink in his cheeks and perspiration on his face and think anything of it. No one is going to ask and if no one asks there's no way he can tell them, because Kendall's his friend, always and forever, just like they agreed when they were six years old. "I knew you wanted it." Kendall smirks, kissing his shoulder, wiping him clean with tissues, mopping up the mess he left on Carlos' thighs, the mess in his hole. "Come on, the show's starting in ten minutes." Kendall pulls his pants up for him, does the zipper and the button, acting no differently than he always has. "Get a move on, Carlos."

"Hey." James clasps him on the shoulder and Carlos doesn't get how he can't _see_ what is as obvious as the color of the sky. "You okay?"

_No_, he wants to say, wants to shout, wants to sob. He's not okay, but the curtain is going up and the crowd starts cheering, and he puts on his most convincing face and lets Super Carlos take over, because real Carlos is a windshield full of cracks, one bump in the road away from breaking.

Kendall touches him throughout the show, little things, hands on his shoulders, on his hip, pushing him into his place on the stage. It's nothing out of the ordinary, nothing Kendall hasn't done, yet each time Kendall's hand makes contact with a part of him he thinks he can feel his skin burning, smell the bacon sizzle scent of burning flesh. He plays along, however, sings like he means it, loses himself in his work, in the art of faking smiles, dancing despite the ache down between his thighs where he's fucked and sore.

"That was great!" Logan laughs, putting his hand up, waiting for a high five from Carlos that never comes. He goes straight into the dressing room, the one that smells like his sweat and Kendall's come and the salt of sex, and shuts the door behind him.

He dissolves then, little by little, crack by crack. Soon enough he's sobbing, shuddering from head to toe, his shoulders and chest heaving, crying like he hasn't in years and years, harder than he ever has in his life. He presses his forehead against the wall, so that he has something to lean against, something to hold him up, something to keep him from falling. He cries and he wants his mother and his friends and for James to shake him awake back in his bed, for this to be a nightmare born from the land the worst dreams are forged from. He has no such luck, but suddenly someone is up against his back, arms around him, holding him close, chin resting on his shoulder blade.

"Kendall—" He starts, unsure of how to begin, what to say. James, and he knows it's James, knows because James is tall enough to have to lean down to hold him properly, comfort him like no one has since Carlos was young.

"Yeah?" Kendall asks, the relief in Carlos' throat decomposing into malice, sick and bittersweet. "I'm sorry." Kendall means it, he can tell, and the malice drips away until he can breathe properly again. Kendall is his friend and they'll get past this somehow and Kendall's arms are warm and safe around him.

He's about to say _I forgive you_, because he always will, he'll forgive Kendall of anything so long as he means it, honestly and truly.

Kendall grinds up against him, erection hard and insistent against the back of his thigh, up near his ass. He freezes, reliving it all again as Kendall scoots impossibly closer, holds him tighter than the two people who first invented hugging could have dreamed.

"No." He whines, tasting salt from his tears on his lips.

"Shh, don't worry dude, this time it'll be better." Kendall nuzzles his lips into the curve of Carlos' throat, breath too warm across his skin. "I'll make it so good for you." Kendall turns him around, cradles both his cheeks in his hands. "I'll always give you what you want, what else are best friends for?"

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**Again, feedback would really help me decide what to do with this. You guys are awesome.**

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	2. Part 2

**So, here it is, the final part. It doesn't get any happier, and I'm sure it's not what some people (most of you) were expecting, and that's alright, because I'm kind of pleased with the ending. There's a little bit of James/Carlos and a little bit of Carlos/Kendall, but that's not really the focus of this fic, not specifically. This gets a whole lot darker, so, so much darker, just a warning people. I like the dark, always have. ;)**

**Thank you to all of you who commented and read. I'm sorry to have made you wait so long, but I'm swamped with schoolwork and writing hasn't been my first priority. I hope this satisfies you all, because this is the end. I'm about ninety-nine percent sure there isn't gong to be another part of this anytime soon. I hope you like it, if you don't, let me know why, I'm interested in hearing your thoughts, because this is an unusual fic and your guys' response means a lot. I count this as a writing experiment, I'd like to hear how the experiment went.**

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The water is so hot it scalds him, boils his flesh raw. Steam fills up the bathroom, thick and white and unbearably warm, moist as he inhales it in, leaves his lungs feeling too full and heavy. He can't breathe the walls are too close and his skin is stretched too tight, pulled too thin. He can't take it, can't watch the grotesque flesh sit on his thighs, gleaming wet and dirty with sweat and spit and come the water alone can't ever wash away. He'll get himself clean though, he will. He's never cleaned anything more than his room in his life and it's about time he starts, about time he learns how to scrub filth away, even the stuff no one else can see.

Mrs. Knight keeps washcloths underneath the sink. He picks a navy blue one that's never been used before, brand new and soft. It turns heavy once he gets it wet, color darkening, and he rubs soap into it until the cloth is smeared white and it leaks runny white foam and suds. He scrubs himself then, imitating what he's seen his mother do, what he's watched Mrs. Knight do the times they tracked dirt onto the floors. He presses his hand down hard enough is fist trembles and moves the washcloth back and forth, scraping his thighs, abrading away the skin. It stings with a ferocious intensity, raw and throbbing, and beneath the flesh he scrubs away everything is pink and red and delicate looking. He can still _see _it and he thinks its soaked through the layers of him, like mold in the walls, water through the pages of a book, spread slow and thick and permanent. He has to work at his legs; pretend the washcloth is a belt sander, work through until he finds the clean.

"I really need to take a piss." James bursts in without knocking, throws the door open wide, hopping desperately, squirming. Carlos can see a vague outline his silhouette through the curtain, listens as James pisses long and loud, a relieved sigh tacked on at the end. Usually he'd laugh at that, pull the curtain back and splash James with water, but his thighs are so red they look like they could be covered in blood. "Did you drown in there or something?"

He tries to answer and his voice catches in his throat, a solid lump of clay or sand, a mouthful too sour to swallow or spit back up. "Carlos?"

He can't let go of the washcloth, can't move, stuck like a deer in the headlights as James pulls the curtain back, half grinning, no doubt expecting a mouthful of water to hit him in the face, dribble lukewarm down the front of his shirt. "Carlos." This time it isn't a question, there's nothing behind his name, desolate quiet, shock so bright it's blinding. "What are you doing?"

"Nothing." He says and his voice sounds like it's quivering, sounds like he feels inside. "Just getting clean."

James reaches over and slowly, gently, sadly, takes the washcloth from his hand. He notices that the soap has long since rinsed out.

"What happened?" James' expression already knows, the lines of his mouth give him away, the distinct creases of devastation.

"I don't want to talk about it." He wouldn't know how to talk about it even if he did. There's nothing for him to say that won't tear everything they all are apart.

"Okay." James nods, pours his Cuda body wash onto the little blue square of cloth. "Let's just get you clean then."

James is professional, almost clinical, wiping him down, not really looking, moves the washcloth carefully over his face, around his mouth, down and down, lets him scrub himself below the waist. He's imitating the independent film Logan brought home two weeks before; the one Logan thought was art and had turned out to be graphic gang-rape that left them all wide eyed on the couch, Mrs. Knight thoroughly horrified, Katie hiding her face in her hands. They aren't allowed to rent R rated movies on their own anymore.

"Thanks." His thighs are a brilliant cherry pink in the florescent light of the bathroom, contrast obscenely with the natural color of his skin.

"That looks like it hurts."

"No, it's fine."

He doesn't feel anything at all.

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Mrs. Knight cooks them a post concert breakfast, congratulating them on an excellent performance. She makes pancakes and bacon and eggs. She shapes the pancakes like Mickey Mouse, she always has, and today Mickey mocks him, stares up at him with pats of butter for eyes and a bacon mouth twisted into something vicious. It says _you want me, really_ in Kendall's voice.

"Want my bacon Carlos?" Kendall waves it at him, smiling, and he's the same as he always is, not a single difference.

"No." He stares at Mickey's laughing, taunting face because he can't look at Kendall's without something rattling inside his chest, closer to his lungs than his heart, his blood buzzing too fast at his pulse points, his heart hammering loud in his head.

"Please Carlos." Kendall squeaks in a falsetto, wriggling the bacon like it's talking. "You know you want me, really."

His stomach rolls once, blistering hot and queasy.

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"You have to talk about it." James sits on his bed and watches him change out of his pajamas.

"No I don't." He straps on his helmet, breathes and breathes until he can find it in him to stand on his feet. He's got a crack in him, a line splitting him down the center, loose threads that have him unraveling at the seams. He can't do this, not if James is going to ask, poke and prod him so much that he bleeds. He hasn't bled yet, James doesn't need to make it worse, make him remember dirty and awful things.

"Who was he?" James doesn't want to know, he only thinks he does. If he knew he'd be sick, he'd puke back up his pancakes and bacon and the sick smell of bile would stink up their room forever. James would look at Kendall and see someone who's two people, a good and a bad, his own doppelganger, the negative to his own positive charge. Logan would call him a cation and an anion, but Carlos isn't that smart, so he doesn't know what to call him, only knows what Kendal is.

"I don't know." He doesn't, he thought he did. Kendall was Kendall before, now he's not, he's _Kendall_ and _Kendall_ hurts Carlos' heart.

"You should tell someone. You should tell your dad, he'll take care of it."

He thinks about that, the horror on his papá's face, the soothing, broken way his mamá would stroke his hair, how hard she'd clutch him to her breast, breathless and sobbing. He thinks about how they'd know every time they looked at him, the shame and the pity and the disgust.

He'd never do that to them.

"No. I'm fine." The lie tastes like he imagines puking up pancakes would, sweet and biting.

"You're not fine."

"I know." James touches his shoulder, squeezes it twice, slides the hand up to cup the back of his neck the way his mamá does, the way James has seen her do. "But I will be."

James looks like he believes him, which is good, because he stopped believing himself sixteen and a half hours ago.

"Who was he?" James asks again.

"I don't know."

A monster, he decides privately, Kendall is a monster.

* * *

"Hey." Kendall comes into his room in the afternoon and shuts the door.

"Hey." He answers, watching a lone, white cloud drift through the too blue sky. He doesn't sound as frightened as he really is. He takes that as a victory.

"Jo baked me some cookies, I brought you one." Kendall holds the treat out, some kind of peace offering, an olive branch made of sugar and dough and tastiness.

The cookie is faintly warm, completely gooey, chocolate chips melted and the edges soft. It's the most delicious thing he's had in weeks and Kendall's the one who has brought it to him.

"Thank you." Maybe this is how things are going to be. Maybe Kendall is back to being Kendall.

Kendall settles on his bed, sets a hand on his back and rubs it in small, smooth circles.

"I know you're hurting." Kendall chokes, hand stilling, such pain and emotion in his eyes it cuts Carlos raw. He_ understands_. Sorry can never make it go away, never change the past, but sorry can make it a little better. Sorry can make it bearable.

Kendall kisses the nape of his neck, where James' hand rested warm and comforting hours before, and the world slows to a crawl. "But you wanted it Carlos. I didn't, I'd _never_." Only he did and Carlos gets it, Kendall doesn't want to see it that way, 'cause it'd break him apart too.

Did he? Did he want it? He doesn't know anymore, but he thinks he didn't, he's pretty sure.

"No more Kendall." He can't take it, it'll kill him, rip his heart right out of his chest. "I can't."

"It's okay." Kendall spoons up behind him, loops an arm around his waist, holds him close. Kendall just kisses the back of his neck, ruts against him gently, dick pressing into the backs of his thighs. It's rhythmic and gentle, more intimate than anything Carlos has ever known. Kendall moans about how much he loves him, how Carlos is his best and favorite friend, how he'll give Carlos the world, everything he's secretly wanted. He falls asleep there, while Kendal groans and stutters, rocks against him.

When he wakes up the back of his jeans is sticky. He strips them off, his favorite pair of pants, and drops them into the garbage.

* * *

He can't sleep most nights, his brain replaying memories over and over, an iPod suck on repeat, pause, stop, rewind, again and again. He'd prefer if memories worked like movies, just the pictures and sound, nothing more than sight and color and words. Memories are sensory and each time he relives them he feels it all, just as he did when it was happening. He knows that if he waits long enough he can forget, the same way he struggles to remember the touch of his grandmother's hands his face, the color of the house they lived in when he had just turned three. Memories are chalk on the sidewalk and they'll fade given enough rain and wind and snow.

He watches James sleep when he lies awake, the fan spinning in lazy circles above them, moving cool air around the room. James never sleeps the same way two nights in a row. He moves and he twists, turns and switches positions. His face is always the same though, carved out of something nicer than marble, perfect and serene, hidden by the lingering shadow of night. The blackness makes it hard to see and he wonders, half asleep, nodding off while James' chest rises and falls, just what could be hiding in the dark, what could slide into bed with him.

"Go to sleep." Sometimes he stares at James long enough that it wakes him up. He wants to ask how James does it, if the hairs on the back of his neck prickle, if something primal tells him there are eyes on him even in the dark.

"I'm trying." He is, he's trying so hard, only he doesn't get better, never improves, the same stupid, broken Carlos.

James shifts in bed, stretches out. Carlos feels cold and he thinks of the warmth of Kendall against his back.

"We could—"

James wants to talk and Carlos just wants him to_ listen_.

"I'm going to go sleep on the couch." He drags his blanket behind him, floor cool beneath his bare feet. He doesn't want to think about it, mostly because he doesn't know what to think, how to deal with any of it.

The noise of the television helps him drift, go somewhere else, a tangent of space and time. He feels like the narrator from _Fight Club_, caught between life and sleep, never awake and always in a dream.

Katie comes out of the kitchen with a glass of water, stares at him long enough her eyes burn holes into his skin, through his bones.

"It's like three in the morning, shouldn't you be asleep?"

He doesn't know why he does, but he starts to cry, and he can't stop. He chokes on the sobs and it's all snot and big, fat tears that have been building pressure behind his eyes, behind his soul. He feels worthless and stupid and it's embarrassing and Katie sits down next to him on the couch, makes him put his head in her lap, strokes his hair. It's awkward and she's too tiny and young to get it. She's innocent and he never wants her to know, kids shouldn't be burdened by stuff like that. Katie doesn't know how to comfort him but her fingers glide silently across his scalp and his tears get her pajama bottoms damp.

"I'm sorry." He sits up, barely breathing, chest trembling deep inside himself, somewhere so, so deep.

"It's okay."

"I just—" There are hundred lies he can use to cover it up, but he picks one of the two truths instead. "I miss my mom."

Katie kisses his cheek, like she hasn't since she was four and she wore pink dresses and gave kisses to all of them, gives him her glass of water, tells him to go to sleep.

"Do you want me to get my brother?"

"No." He sniffles, wiping his nose hard, getting his sleeve gross and wet. "No one needs to know about this but you and me."

_Someone needs to know about it_ the tiny part of his brain that sounds like Logan whispers. He ignores it for now, though, because he's tired, because he thinks he can finally go to sleep.

* * *

Katie obviously mentions the incident to Mrs. Knight, he can tell from the way she gives him a hug in the morning, tucks the blanket tighter around him while he dozes on the couch. She makes chorizo and potatoes for breakfast, which is weird because she's never made it before, and he thinks it's because his mother used to make it on Sundays after church. He doesn't know how to tell Mrs. Knight she didn't cook it right, didn't mix it with eggs, made it too crunchy and burnt. He can taste the scorch from the bottom of the pan, thick and nasty.

"I don't know what you think, but I hope my mom never tries to make Mexican food again." Kendall laughs, just outside the shower curtain, and there is the distinct flutter of clothing falling to the floor.

"It was a nice thought." He scrubs shampoo into his hair, lathers it into creamy foam that gets caught in his eyelashes, burns when he blinks.

"But poor execution." Kendall slips in behind him and it's the first time Carlos has actually seen him fully naked in a way that counts. They used to take baths and showers together when they were little, all four of them crammed into the tub while Mrs. Knight or his mom or someone's mom scrubbed mud from their faces with exasperated hands.

There's a prickle of disgust across his skin as Kendall touches his naked back, runs fingers down his spine, the long, straight line of bone under his flesh. The disgust flares away, quickly as it came, and he's left too hot from the water and on edge, hairs on his neck standing straight up, waiting for _it_ to come. Kendall turns him around so he can kiss him; press him against the shower wall, the curve of his skull resting on the tile. It hurts and it's cold and he doesn't feel much else, doesn't focus on the slide of Kendall's tongue, slick and spit-sour like breakfast.

Kendall's hand never creeps down between his legs, never searches to probe. Kendall's hands go from his jaw to his neck to his shoulders, grip and push down, firm and demanding and somehow the action gives off the impression that it's voluntary as Carlos sinks to his knees. Maybe it is voluntary, he doesn't fight it, doesn't lock his knees in place, just goes with the flow. He's never sucked a dick, not that he needs the knowledge, Kendall pretty much does it for him, and all he has to do is keep his throat open and try not to gag. Kendall's hard and throbbing hot in his mouth, a little bitter, rocking hard and his jaw aches, lips stretched too wide, abused. Saliva dribbles down his chin, stringy and thin. As strange as it seems to him at that moment, he likes this better, because there's no way for this to retain a modicum of gentleness. Kendall rides his face hard and he breathes through his nose, swallows the gross stuff Kendall gives him. "You're not too bad at that."

"Thanks." He tastes Kendall on his tongue, the roof of his mouth, collecting in his throat.

"You want me to give you one too?" Kendall's staring at his dick and there's barely enough blood in it to keep it alive, let alone erect. He could get one, if he thought about it. He almost did think about it, about how it would make things easier.

"I don't think I'm in the mood."

"No problem." Kendall pecks him on the cheek, gives his cock a pat. "We'll work on that later."

Later turns out to be the next afternoon. Kendall grinds them together, impossibly warm and slippery, and he can't help but react to it. No one has _ever_, not a single one. Kendall holds him down because he fought; kicked when he thought Kendall was going to hold his thighs apart with his knees, go in for another go. He hates it and he's hard and it's so much better than his hand, than what he imagined it could feel like with someone else's help. Once his come settles on his belly, a crusting ooze, the high of arousal dissipates and he wants to cry. "Told you." Kendall laughs and his tone sounds like he's won a major battle. "Told you that you wanted it."

"I wanted it?" He doesn't _know_, life's too confusing, too fast and painful. "I wanted it." He repeats and his voice has a ring of conviction, so much so that when James asks him again that night he has an answer.

"Who was it?"

"I don't know."

My friend, he thinks, Kendall is my _friend_.

* * *

"Carlos?" James asks wearily, barely awake, strands of hair in his face, sprawled out on his stomach, blinking.

"Shhh." He whispers, pulling up the covers of James' bed and sliding in. The sheets are warm from the heat of James' body and they create a soft, pleasant friction against his bare skin. He thinks there might be goose bumps on his thighs, the curve of his back, but they're gone by the time he settles in, curls himself into James' side.

"What're you doing?" James can tell he's naked, freezes up, his hands still and voice unnaturally quiet. He answers in kisses instead of words and James makes a sound deep in his throat, a sound like he's hurt and dying. "No." James chokes, half sobbing. "No Carlos, you're, _oh God_, you're fucked up and traumatized and I _won't_. I won't do that to you."

Carlos hears Kendall then, in the back of his mind, the loving, hushed declarations. _You want it really_. He does, he wants it really, Kendall's told him so a thousand times. James doesn't love him enough, he sees that now, but it's okay, because he's going to fix it, he's going to make James love him enough.

"It's alright." He murmurs, his mouth against James' ear. "I want it, really. I've been asking for it for months."

"No." James repeats, with more conviction, a strained, panicked tone. "_No_."

He slides his hand into James' pants, grips his dick, holds it firm and solid and gentle like he remembers. James doesn't move, won't move because he'll never try to hurt Carlos, not ever, because James wants it too, everyone does, everyone wants to give him what he's been not so secretly asking for.

"You're my best friend." He says, slowly stroking. "I'm always going to give you what you want."

* * *

**Let me know what you think. ;)**


	3. Chapter 3

**I wasn't going to add to this story, really I wasn't, when I had a very special person ask me about Carlos' healing process. And then I realized that, you know, as much as I might like the way my fic ended from an artistic kind of view, it wasn't fair to my readers. You deserved more, you deserved an ending. Because there are people out there who deal with this kind of thing every day and they have to get some kind of closure. Their lives don't cut off where it is artistically convenient.**

**This is dedicated to everyone who has ever been a victim of sexual assault. You girls are so strong, even if there are times when you don't feel like it.**

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* * *

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During the three weeks his seventh grade history class spent on ancient Mesoamerican civilizations, Carlos learned about the gods of the Aztecs and the Mayans. Kukulkan, better known as Quetzalcoatl, was drawn as a feathered serpent and worshipped as the morning star. He thinks of Quetzalcoatl, the sun and creator, god of war and wind and knowledge, as he watches the sun climb over the horizon and cast its golden light across the land. There's the bitter taste of Kendall in the back of his throat and the scorching burn of James' rejection on his face. He feels like he's turning into ashes, his skin and bones bursting into flames, marrow dripping through his flesh, burnt black before it hits the ground. The fire is eating him alive, heart and mind and soul, every inch of him.

"Hey Carlos." Logan settles beside him on the couch, a book in his hands. "You're up early." Logan's fingers skate smoothly across the pages of his novel and Carlos thinks about the potential in those hands. They could give him everything James won't, everything Kendall says he's craving so deep down inside, everything that's buzzing angry as a swarm of bees inside his head.

"I felt like watching the sun rise." Quetzalcoatl took arrows to the chest and his fiery, warrior's heart became the center of the morning sky.

"Huh." Logan clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth, the sound noncommittal, disinterested. Logan's too caught up in his reading to process anything he could possibly have to say.

Logan's mouth is warm and curled up in surprise when Carlos leans over and kisses him, wraps one hand firm around his chin to hold his face in place. Logan's mouth goes slack and he shoves his tongue in past his teeth, giving as good as he gets, putting everything he feels into the demanding, frustrated, aching thrust of tongue. "Carlos, what the hell?" Logan shoves him so roughly away he tumbles off the couch and hits his head on the coffee table. There's a sharp crack, a violent ribbon of pain that streaks through his vision and down his spine. "Oh shit." Logan's helping him up before the unbearable pounding in his head has a chance to dull. Logan's hand touches the spot at the base of his skull and his fingers come away streaked red with blood. "I didn't mean to push you that hard. Are you okay?"

"I'm fine." He's not fine, he's not anywhere in the vicinity of fine. He's somewhere so far beyond it, floating desolate out in space.

"What the fuck were you thinking, dude? I'm dating Camille and you're, well, I don't know, but _we're_ not like that, not you and I. We're _friends_." Logan mops up some of Carlos' blood with his sleeve, his eyes apologetic and water-bright. "Got it?"

"Totally."

* * *

The times Carlos can sleep, his dreams are thick, smothering things that choke his heart and soul. He feels like he's trapped underwater and with each breath he takes, a little more water rushes inside him until he drowns in it and overflows.

"You were crying out in your sleep." James has a hand lying light on his shoulder, cotton-soft. If he wasn't awake, Carlos wouldn't even know that it was there.

"Don't touch me." He tells him, because James wrenched inside him that night he said what Carlos couldn't and twisted until he snapped muscle and bone.

"Carlos." James starts, but he trails off like he doesn't know what to say. Of course he doesn't. Carlos doesn't even know what he wants James to say. If James said yes, if James would give him what he's supposed to want, he doesn't think it would make a difference. He'd still feel dirty inside and he'd soil the clean of everything he and James were and will never again be. He ruined it. He ruins everything.

Kendall ruined him like moisture can rot a house from the inside out.

* * *

Anger builds inside him like helium fills a balloon. He pops often and easy and when he does he never knows if he's going to laugh or cry or punch until his knuckles are bloody and raw.

He punches Logan in the face one afternoon. Logan grabs his shoulder without warning him and he's back there in an instant, struggling to get free under Kendall's warm weight and panting breath. His fist collides with Logan's jaw and the pain flares up in his first three fingers and runs up along the length of his spine. He's sorry for it immediately, so, so sorry, and Logan stares at him as though he's something horrible and wrong.

"Logan, I didn't mean to—you just snuck up on me."

Logan spits out a mouthful of deep red blood. It's a color Carlos remembers scrubbing off the insides of his thighs. He remembers shitting blood for three days afterwards, feeling hot and throbbing and torn. He's damaged forever down there and if anyone looks, if they ever see, they're going to know and call him a damned and dirty thing.

"Shit, dude." Logan's jaw is already beginning to swell and more blood dribbles over his lips as he talks. "I didn't mean to frighten you, but seriously, watch the right hook."

"I will, god, I'm so sorry. Let me go get you some ice."

There is no ice in the freezer so Carlos makes do with a bag of frozen corn and peas. Logan accepts it like Carlos is offering him an olive branch, like it's a treaty for peace.

His war isn't with Logan; the only battle he's fighting is against himself.

* * *

Kendall holds both sides of his face while Carlos sucks his dick. His grip grows impossibly tighter the closer he gets and there are moments he's afraid Kendall's fingers are going to go right through the skin of his cheeks and meet in the middle somewhere between his teeth.

"Fuck, you want it so bad, Carlos." Kendall's dick touches the back of his throat and Carlos has never had anyone that deep inside him before. Kendall's his first for everything, as much as he may not want him to be. "I love you." Kendall thrusts harder, less controlled. His hips falter and soon enough he's pushing forward too fast for Carlos to do anything but hold his throat open and suck air in through his nose. A few weeks of this and his gag reflex is nonexistent. It turns out deep throating is easy to learn whether you're an eager slut for it or just a fucked out whore. "Shit, I love you, I really think I do."

No one has ever told him that before. If no one could love him on his best of days, he doesn't know how anyone is going to be able to do it now. Kendall might be the best he's ever going to get. There's something sad about it, that Kendall is all he's ever going to have. No girl wants to be with someone like him. They'll see him as too broken; even the nicest girl doesn't want someone's sloppy, dripping seconds. There's only one other option and Carlos, who has never been attracted to a guy in all his life, is certainly never going to go that route now. Kendall's imprinted him, burned something deep into his flesh.

"Thanks." He says once his mouth isn't full, once Kendall pulls out and he has to swallow. Come doesn't taste like much of anything but the flavor makes him feel sick all the same. His stomach twists to knots and ribbons and the bile inside him seems to dissolve away skin and bone.

"Thanks?" Kendall stops buttoning his pants and looks up. Usually he sticks around for a while after and Carlos is never sure whether he should be relieved or disappointed the times Kendall doesn't want to stay.

"Am I supposed to answer?" There's nothing he could possibly say. He can't respond to something that intimate, that cherished and deep. What he feels for Kendall is a mix of salted barbed wire and nostalgia so bitter it hurts. "What the fuck do you think I'm going to tell you?" He's so _angry_ these days it feels like the anger is going to bury him alive. He's up to his neck in hurt and if he isn't careful soon he's going to slip completely beneath the surface.

Kendall's face goes dark and thoughtful. Carlos feels like there are rubber bands wrapped tight around his heart.

"You know," Kendall tugs on his shirt, runs a hand through his hair. "I don't think this is working out, you and I. This was a mistake." Kendall _can't_ say that to him because it invalidates everything Carlos has become, everything that he feels. Discontent moves like ripples over water through him and it's akin to being adrift at sea. There's an undertow beneath him, trying to drag him down and Kendall's only given him more of an incentive to sink rather than swim.

"Fuck _you_." He says and then his forearm is embedded with shards of glass. He punched the bedroom window, he realizes, the muscles in his arm quivering as his severed veins gush blood. Mrs. Knight gets a towel to try to stop the bleeding and Logan is already on his cell phone with 911.

"Kendall, what happened?"

Kendall looks as shocked as Carlos feels.

"We were fooling around and he missed." Mrs. Knight accepts the statement at face value, of course she does. He's Carlos; the accident prone idiot who everyone believes could actually slam his fist through a solid pane of glass.

"EMTs are here." James lets them in the apartment and then time slows to a crawl slow as a snail and he still can't keep up with it. It's the blood loss, he thinks, it's the blood dripping out of his arm that's draining him dry.

"Carlos—," he hears and then he's gone.

* * *

At the hospital, he scratches at the skin around his stitches. They gave him morphine in his IV and he's pleasantly, pathetically pleased.

"Only you could almost go through a window, Carlos." Logan laughs and James is quiet and Kendall is nowhere to be seen.

"How many stitches did they give me?"

"Seventeen." It doesn't look like just seventeen when they're sitting neat and black inside him. They look like something foreign, something alien and invasive.

"Must be my lucky number."

James won't stop staring at him and the look on his face says that he knows exactly what happened even though he wasn't in the room.

* * *

"I'm going home for awhile." When he announces it, everyone turns to him as though there isn't any flesh over his bones. "I talked to Kelly about it already; she said I could go for a week."

"But—" Kendall takes a step forward and Carlos moves one back.

"My parents want to see me."

He's leaving whether they allow him to go or not.

* * *

He can breathe better in Minnesota. All the weight on his shoulders is suspended temporarily above him and he feels so free. The winter snow catches in his eyelashes when he goes for morning walks, bundled up in layers against the cold. California winters are bright sunny days interspersed with bouts of fog and rain. Minnesota is sub-zero temperatures and air icy enough to freeze the mocos in his nose. It numbs him, the snow and freezing winds do, and when he can't feel his skin he forgets about the tornado running rampant in his chest.

"It's so nice to have you home for a visit." His mamá runs her fingers through his short hair over and over, holds him close to her breast. She loves him so much he can't believe he ever forgot what it was like to feel wholly and truly and unconditionally loved. He doesn't know how he let it slip his mind. "We missed you; the house seems so empty when you're away."

"I missed you too mamá." He wraps his arms around her shoulders and he feels eight years old and the tension inside him slips away like a hockey puck slides over ice.

Kendall texts him his on his first day back home. He's watching a terrible telenovela with his mamá when his phone buzzes in his pocket.

_Miss ya ;)_

He stares at the screen until the smiley face really does seem to wink. He flips his phone shut, because he _can't_.

After three more texts from Kendall that night, he turns his phone off.

"Carlos!" The Cheung twins down the street tackle him when he's going for a run early in the afternoon. He likes the stretch and burn of it in his muscles, the way the heat builds inside him in contrast with the cold. His breathe rises in puffs of white and he's breathing hard as the kids push him into a snow bank and climb over him. "You're back!"

"Hey, you guys." He laughs, feeling better than he has since it happened. "Long time no see."

"Do you want to play hockey with us?" He's never played hockey with seven year olds before, but he has his helmet on and the pond is frozen over for another two months at least.

"Sure, get your sticks and let's go."

It turns out that Eric can barely skate. Carlos spends twenty minutes showing him how to keep his balance and he can' skate on his own yet, so he has to cling to Carlos' arm just to stay upright. "You know you have to be able to skate to play ice hockey?"

"I'm _trying_!"

Eric gets the hang of it eventually. He wobbles around and puts too much weight on his stick, occasionally falling flat on his ass. He laughs and it doesn't feel forced to be so happy. There's something about being thousands of miles away from Kendall and James' silent disapproval and obvious pity that has him almost back to himself, albeit temporarily. He's considering moving back permanently, because his mental health is more important than the success of the band. It's a fleeing fantasy, though. He could never do it; he could never ruin James and Logan's dreams. He's sacrifice himself for them because he loves them, because that's what best friends do.

* * *

He doesn't turn his phone on until he's landed at the Los Angeles airport. His phone flashes almost angrily at him with the news that he has forty-five missed text messages and nine new voicemails and all of them are from Kendall.

_I'm sry we fought_

_U ok?_

_Carlos?_

_Dude, im worried about u_

_I love u_

_Please?_

They go on like that, text after text after text.

And then, Kendall is there at the airport, waiting for him the second he gets away from his gate. Somehow he got through security and Carlos realizes that Kendall bought a ticket just so he could see him.

"There you are." Kendall is hugging him, so tight and close. No one has ever hugged him the way Kendall does. It's soft and lingering and intimate. Kendall rubs his cheek against Carlos' and he stands there feeling like a cartoon character with a question mark for a head. He's so fucking confused. "Why wouldn't you answer me? I know you're mad and I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have broken up with you. I know you love me. It's okay." Kendall tries to kiss him and finally, as though some dam inside him has finally broken and all his pent up self-hatred and rage is sent crashing free.

He punches Kendall in the mouth. He pops a few stitches but nothing has ever felt so damn good. Kendall claps a hand over his bleeding lips and talks even as blood drips red through his teeth. "I know you love me too, you told me. Come on, don't be like that." Kendall is talking too fast and his mouth is drenched in blood and something in Carlos' bones just doesn't feel right.

"What the _fuck_ are you talking about? I'm not, I don't know how dumb you think I am, but I know how I feel and I don't love you."

Everyone is staring at them.

He doesn't care who sees. He doesn't have much courage in him and he wants to get this done before he's back to being the Carlos he was before, the one who Kendall could take advantage of.

"You_ told_ me you loved right before our first time. You came into my dressing room. Don't lie."

Kendall is out of his mind.

"Dude." He says, backing up.

"You told me and you can't take it back, you can't, you can't take that back. You said we were going to be together. I broke up with Jo for you, for _you_." Kendall's talking faster than he ever thought could be possible, so fast what he's saying barely sound like words.

Kendall is literally out of his _mind_.

"Oh god, Kendall." He chokes out, because he didn't see.

* * *

The doctors call it a psychotic break. Carlos doesn't understand what most of it means as they all sit in the waiting room, so once the doctor goes off with Mrs. Knight Logan explains it to them.

"It's when someone enters a state of psychosis. It's like, well, psychosis can be a lot of different things, delusions, fits of rage, paranoia, and other stuff. The doctor says it was most likely caused by extreme stress and was exacerbated by lack of sleep." He never thought about how the pressure of Hollywood could get to Kendall. Kendall never had Hollywood fever and maybe there was a reason for it. Maybe Kendall kept it all inside him until he couldn't, until it poisoned his brain from the inside out.

"Is he going to be alright? Does this make him crazy?"

"No. It was temporary. They have him on medication right now. He's going to be fine." James hugs him without asking but he does it gently, like he never did before. James lets Carlos know he's going to touch him before he does with a hand on the back of his neck first, with a gentle brushing of their arms.

"I want to go talk to him. I need to."

They think it's because he wants to apologize for punching Kendall in the mouth. It isn't. He needs to work it out, to see. There's closure he needs to get. Going back to Minnesota helped him clear his head but Kendall is the only one that can clear his heart.

* * *

Kendall is drugged to the gills and even then, he won't look at him. Kendall stares at the white hospital sheets.

"Carlos, I'm sorry." He sounds like a robot, emotionless as a machine. "I really thought, it was like, it was like I had all these memories in my brain and they seemed so real."

"I don't forgive you." He doesn't. He never will. There's no excuse for it, drunk or high or temporarily insane. Rape is rape. Kendall might not have meant it, but he did it, and he can't take it back. He can apologize but that won't make it go away.

"You shouldn't. I can't, I _can't_ Carlos. I can see it and the filter is off and I can't take it." Kendall's tears roll over his cheeks and drip onto the front of his hospital gown. "I thought you wanted it. I did. I never, you know that I wouldn't. Not if I was me."

Strange as it might seem; Carlos believes him. He spent so much time thinking there was a darker side to Kendall that now he's looking at his best friend and for the first time he doesn't feel fear. There's anger swirling around inside him only now there's guilt and sympathy in there too. Kendall wasn't himself inside his own body. He can sort of relate. "I won't, I won't ever come near you again."

"We're going to be okay." Kendall's shoulders shudder and shake under his hand. "I won't ever forgive you," Kendall makes a sad noise low in his throat at the words. "But I think we can be friends again."

"Really?"

"If we work at it hard enough."

"I can't forgive myself for it. What am I supposed to do?"

"You'll learn to live with it, that's all you _can_ do. You just live with it until you can breathe again. It won't ever go away, but it'll fade. That's all you can hope for."


End file.
